by Daniel Heck
The mayoress points to a distant crag, where a colossus of a building, constructed of dank grey stone and brick, looms large over the countryside. Even upon reflection, you fail to comprehend how you could have missed this the few times your military duties sent you to Koraxon.
Bartleby mutters, “Who knows what awaits us there…”
Vermouth reiterates, “I am determined, frightening though it may be, to stay the course.”
You hike to within a hundred yards of the tower’s base, and hide behind a cropping of large boulders, out of the line of sight of a corps of about a half-dozen orcblood guards. They discuss something and occasionally point in some random direction. From here, you can see that the door to the tower is unlocked and open by just a few inches.
“So, what is our plan?” you ask.
“I see few options but force,” Titania replies, “Although we should still try to avoid battle. Get in, do what we need to do, and get out.”
As you discuss, five of the guards march off to the west.
“Now is our best chance,” you say.
“One of you, distract the last guard. The other will sneak in with me. If we’re lucky, there shan’t be much more resistance on the inside.”
“I’d like to protect her,” Bartleby requests of you.
What do you do?
I distract the guard.
I order Bartleby to do it instead.
Enough of this pussy-footing around, you think.
“We don’t know where we’re going, other than up,” you say to Vermouth, “So, we shall conquer whatever stands in our way!”
Titania smiles at you with warmth equal to her smiles at Bartleby. You don’t see yourself partnering with her, but as your soul lifts, the cleric’s attraction to her takes on all new meaning.
“Let’s do it,” she exclaims.
You charge up the stairs and onto the next level to find a single orcblood heading toward you. You engage him in a wrestler’s hold, using your weight in an old trip technique that sends the brute to the floor. It shakes its head and blinks, dazed.
Eight more such semi-monsters, however, two of which control barking hounds at the ends of chains, sit on various cots between you and where the stairs continue upward. They turn their gazes toward you in alarm, stand, and draw their weapons.
“Puny dwarf!” the biggest shouts, “You shall pay for this transgression.”
You and Titania turn to run, but two more orcbloods intercept you, imposing themselves like statues between you and the door. One grabs the mayoress’s arms and binds them with rope, despite her screams. You, however, are not so lucky, as these half-men pound you into dust with their bare fists, imprison you, and decide after a short discussion that your head would make a great decoration upon a spear near the tower’s spire.
Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
You pull the mayoress off to one side, and scan a short, oddly-shaped door nearby. It appears unlocked, and safe. Some shuffling sounds come from behind it, but you figure that the worst that can happen is not much worse than how things are now.
You open the door and, crouching under the low entry, sneak into an expansive chamber beyond, within which dozens of implements of torture now surround you. Multiple stretching racks and breaking wheels lay here, as well as a laboratory-like workspace, on which colorful substances in urns bubble and boil despite a lack of any flame underneath.
Nothing living appears to be here, beyond yourselves.
“Hello?” you whisper.
A string of breathy hisses meets your ears, and a dot of darkness appears before you. It expands to wash over the entire room. Vermouth gasps. You withhold from reaching for a torch or walking about for the moment, for fear of knocking into something deadly.
“New experimental subjects!” exclaims an impish voice from somewhere within the void. You whirl about in place and hold your hands out, but still hear light footsteps approaching, as well as the wooden thump of a wand or club-like object hitting a palm.
“Hold, good sir,” Titania pleads, her voice trembling, “Is there any way by which we can…”
You have already thought that there is no way to talk yourselves out of this, and retreat toward the triangular door--potential obstacles be damned--when a sizzling jolt of electricity bursts from the direction of the voice and hits you square in the back. Perhaps your unseen enemy, at the very least, will have some trouble with you, given that you’re a bit short to fit properly within an iron maiden.
Your quest has ended... or has it?
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“We may not get another chance,” you say, “so let’s delve deeper.”
Bartleby nods his agreement. You pull upon a metal handle built into the hatch, to find that the passage opens easily. Underneath, a short ladder is built into the near wall, and the ground slopes into a dark tunnel heading to the east.
You retrieve flint and a torch from your pack, and light the torch. You lead the way in, climbing down with caution to avoid slipping on the round, slick rungs, while Bartleby trails behind.
The tunnel seems featureless, beyond the fact that the dirt floor stretches for miles. No offshoots provide a choice or challenge of any kind. Finally, your light illuminates a plain stone wall ahead of you, which blocks your way.
“How boring,” the cleric complains.
“Why in the world would Crolliver want to come down here?”
“There must have been some reason.”
Several moments of silence pass. You look about you, and scratch your head.
“And yet, here we stand,” Bartleby says. “And stand some more.”
You search for anything interesting, under rocks and within crags, on the floor and within the ceiling, and find nothing. The cleric even knocks on the wall, but the resulting tone sounds somewhere between hollow and muffled, and fails to shed any real light on the situation.
“We could end up spending all day down here,” you observe.
“That lackey must have known something we could never guess.”
You sigh, “And it certainly is too late to extract it from him now.”
How unusual. Moving onward, then...
It seems unlikely, you reflect, that that is an actual oasis. You turn up your nose and wonder what kind of monster might hide behind the very sand dune you considered traversing.
You march further, forcing your legs to lift and move one after the other, even as the remaining clouds clear and the sun’s rays intensify. Minutes later, you check your waterskin, to find it empty, and turn, only to discover that either the supposed oasis has disappeared, or you’ve walked clear out of sight of it. The winds sharpen, and pelt your eyes and face with sand. You can now barely breathe, and no standard path is in sight.
Stories replay in your head, of desert wanderers that never find their way out because of a strange tendency of one leg to walk in longer strides than the other, causing one’s path to become circular rather than straight. Without personal assistance, a camel, or so much as a compass, the foolhardiness of undertaking this leg of your quest alone sets in now. And yet, what did you know? Somehow, in all your years, your adventures never sent you this way, even though the Ambrosinian military headquarters is in Fort Remnon.
Were they keeping secrets from me in some way? Here I am, believing that I was stationed further east for no real reason…
Over the next hour, your head becomes so clouded that you cannot form coherent thoughts. Utterly spent, you collapse in a heap, alone in the middle of nowhere. You smack your tongue against the roof of your mouth and observe that buzzards circle overhead. You hope in a perversely wicked way that your parched body, even if already dead, will provide them little sustenance.
Your travels cease here, but don’t give up.
Go back to the previous choice, or…
&nbs
p; Restart from the beginning.
You reluctantly conclude that continuing might not be wise, and steer yourself toward the oasis. The closer you get, the realer it seems, until you stand within the refuge’s crystal clear pond, surrounded by about twenty weary travelers of all races and sizes. The breeze blowing through this valley cools your cheeks and scalp.
You ask around, and discover many souls willing to help, from a boy who refills your waterskin to a muscled saleswoman, from whom you purchase an old compass at a deep discount. You share stories of your travels with a congenial newlywed couple, who in turn bestow a blessing upon you. By the time you’re ready to depart, hope once again courses through your veins, like invigorating manna from heaven.
The remainder of the journey to Fort Remnon seems almost effortless. There, the gate guards guide you to the military headquarters, and in turn toward a specific hall therein.
Around the corner approaches a black-haired, wiry human, dressed in long white pants and a white cloak, who smiles at you and extends his left hand for a shake. “Welcome!” he bellows. You wonder why he’s not using the customary right hand, until you notice that he has no right arm. His shirt sleeve hangs limp over a short stump.
“Are you Saul?” you ask.
“Indeed I am. What brings you to these parts?”
You explain what you’ve been through, from your desire to save Fedwick to rescuing Titania, as well as the church’s plans and its alliance with Koraxon.
“And, you left my sister with only a servant of the sun god to protect her? A peace-monger?”
“You underestimate him,” you reply, “In fact, you have never met him. You cannot judge.”
“I admire your dedication to your clansman,” Saul continues, “yet, the idea that my sister expects me to help you automatically is now thrown into question.” He frowns, and scratches his chin.
You blink, and cross your arms.
“An expedition to Managhast happens to depart within the morrow. But, let’s make it interesting. We like to play a game around here to pass the time, called nine-card poker. You play me, one on one. You win, and I’ll come all the way with you to Managhast. You lose, and I’ll still let you aboard my ship, but I will then choose to stay here, for as you see, responsibilities abound.” You look about you, as footmen in chainmail shuffle from room to room within the compound, issuing orders and carrying weapons, food, and other supplies.
Saul guides you into a private chamber, where he pulls two chairs up to a short table, and offers you one. You sit, while he retrieves a deck of cards from a nearby cupboard. He spreads the cards out on the table and mixes them with his one hand.
“I shall deal out a total of nine cards,” Saul says, “one at a time. By the time the game ends, the cards need to form a three-by-three grid, but before then, we shall take turns choosing where a card goes within that grid, one card at a time.
“Your job, as the player, is to attempt to arrange the cards so as to form three-card poker hands in any of the rows, columns, or diagonals. For example, if two cards of the same rank are in the same row, you earn a point for the pair. A straight, three cards of consecutive rank, or a flush, three cards of the same suit, earns you two points, while three of a kind or a straight flush, the rarest possible hands, earn you three points. Your goal is to accumulate a mere four points by the end. If you do so, you win.”
“That’s it?”
Saul nods.
You huff into your beard, unimpressed.
“I’m ready, then,” you say.
“Dealer goes first,” Saul says, as he turns over the nine of diamonds, which he places on the table without comment. “Your turn.”
The next card is the three of spades.
“No help just yet. Where would you like it, relative to the nine?”
You think for a moment. It doesn’t much matter where this card goes, other than that you shouldn’t block places conducive to scoring hands. You place the three one spot below and to the right of the nine.
Saul deals another card. This time it’s the seven of hearts.
“Still not much help,” he says, placing it to the immediate right of the nine.
So, this is how the grid has shaped up so far…
Your heart leaps upon seeing the eight of clubs next. Along with the nine of diamonds and the seven of hearts, it makes a straight.
“Lucky dog,” Saul grumbles, “It can make a straight in two ways.”
Where do you place the eight of clubs?
To the left of the nine.
To the right of the seven.
“If brute force becomes called for,” you explain, “I’d best be inside with Titania. You distract the guard.”
Bartleby frowns, but shrugs. “May the gods smile upon us on this fool’s mission,” he mumbles, before he steps out of the shadows.
“Excuse me, good sir,” Bartleby chimes to the orcblood, “But I wonder if you could help me. Do you know the way to Saint Martin?”
“Wha?”
“Saint Martin. ‘The last time I was there, there was this old man who wouldn’t stop talking to us about the island of Managhast, something about how it had the most beautiful flowers in the world, and…”
Bartleby prattles on and on, until the guard begins sputtering and blinking, and holds his hands outward in a placative pose. “Wait, wait,” he grumbles. “I have never heard of a Saint Martin in these lands.”
“You are joshing me!” The shock in Bartleby’s voice is only halfway convincing, but you lead Vermouth down the lane on tiptoes, through the door and into the tower. You hear, “Do you not have a map of some sort?” from outside as you peruse the dark interior, boosting your confidence that you won’t be interfered with, for now.
Ahead of you lay a flight of dimly-lit wooden stairs, which coil upward in a helix. The bizarre architecture here offers no rhyme, reason, or pattern to the arrangement of alcoves. Foreboding arches throughout form L-shapes, diamonds, and half-stars; you wonder whether the shapes hold any meaning. Some are spaced only a few yards apart, while the southern wall contains no entryways at all.
You hear low voices and the tromping of boots on the ceiling. The sound progresses toward where the stairs rise upward.
What do you do?
We go through a triangular door to our right.
We go under the undulating arch to our left.
We take on whoever walks above.
After you place the four of hearts, Saul deals the ten of hearts, arches and eyebrow and, with a chuckle, places the card in the lower-right corner. The grid now looks like this:
He then deals the three of hearts, and there are only two spots left to place a card.
Where do you place the three of hearts?
To the left of the three of spades.
To the left of the jack.
You reflect upon whether you would ever be back to these mountains during your lifetime. Concerning this egg, it is now or never.
Your muscles twitch with trepidation as you slowly approach the nest. You keep the egg in your peripheral vision while focusing on whether the mother seems nearby, but soon realize there isn’t all that broad an entryway by flight. A few more steps, and the smooth texture of the mottled shell meets your fingertips. You reach around the egg, and need the whole width of your grasp just to lift it from its perch…
“Squawwwwwk.”
At that moment, a pair of golden claws land between you and the passage with a tremendous thud. The perturbed gryphon connected to them calls again and spreads it wings, blocking out your view of the sun.
Panic causes you to forget about the feather. You first feint to the right, but the bird is too quick, and cuts you off. To the left lay the precarious cliffside, with its shattered rocks. An idea strikes you.
You dash straight forward, and duck between the gryphon’s legs. The bird whirls about in confusion, and you are just about home free when your foot catches on a branch sticking out the far edge of the nest. You stumbl
e forward, one, two, three full steps, and crash face-first into the stone; the egg smashes into hundreds of pieces in your arms.
Yolkish muck now smothers your face, chest, and hands, and in the moments you have left, you can barely breathe, let alone get your wits about you. As you recover, the gryphon bull-rushes you, burying its massive head into your chest and shoving until you no longer find ground underneath your feet. Mercifully, you’re knocked out by the first blow, and don’t feel the next several times your limp body smashes against the hard mountainside as gravity does its work. Calling your corpse a mess, at this point, would be quite the understatement.
Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“A pair and a straight,” Saul says, “Just one point to go.”
He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:
You win!
I revel in my victory!
You circle around a large boulder and approach the tower from many yards to the east. It appears to offer no visible back entrance, or you would be tempted to return to your party and redirect them.
You peer around the edge of the stone wall, and see the backside of the orcblood guard. He’s armored in leather, cinched together with thick cords all the way up his spine, and a short sword hangs in a weather-beaten scabbard at his waist. The creature sways from side to side every now and again.